“Feel me,” he says. “I can feel you. I can feel your breath, through the fabric. I can feel your hands on me, my hands are roaming, I can trace your curves.”

“Who are you?” she says. Her voice is trembling. Is she scared? Excited?

“I will ravish you,” he whispers, his breath hot in her ear, even through two layers.

“I know,” she says, an air of something between resignation and thrill. “I know you will.”

“When we are finished,” he promises, confidently, “you will know who I am.”

“I will?” she says, again trembling. “And will you know me?”

“I will,” he promises.

“You’re sure?” she asks, tremulously.

“I will.” He’s confident, certain, unhesitant.

“Then no,” she says, and turns away.

II.

“I know you,” she whispers.

“You do?” he says.

“I do,” she confirms. “And I know you even better when I can see you clearly, without distortion. Like this. You’re pure,” she says, “and clear.”

“I am?” he queries, puzzled.

“Yes,” she says. “I can see you like I’ve never seen you before.”

“But how?” He wants to know. He needs to know.

“Senses work that way,” she explains. “The only way to see clearly is to block out the distractions of the eyes. Like this,” she continues, “with my ears, my nose, my fingers, my consciousness, I can know you. And if we take away the other senses,” her voice lowering, seductively, “I will know you even more completely. You too will know me.”

She steps around him, and gently, tenderly, closes steel cuffs around his wrist.

“Tilt your head toward me,” she continues.

He does.

And she lowers a pair of headphones on him, lovingly, silently. Through the earphones he hears nothing. Well, not exactly nothing: it’s the gentle but deafening roar of a waterfall. He can no longer hear her breathing, hear her movements. He is, now, truly in the dark. No sounds, no movement, no stimuli at all, except the sensation of her hands wandering over, under his suit.